


The Heart is Not The Hands (It Doesn't Let Go)

by Shiny_Red_Cape



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3499820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Red_Cape/pseuds/Shiny_Red_Cape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can tell your mind to let something go, but some things just run too deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart is Not The Hands (It Doesn't Let Go)

It’s a time after bars have let out but before the earliest of workers have stirred, when she’s wrapped in the cool sheets in the inky dark, that she feels his arms slip around her. It’s the heat that always strikes her first, the robust vitality that she’s always associated with him.

She hasn’t seemed to be able to get warm recently.

His nose is next, nuzzling forward into the back of her neck, lips dragging lightly in it’s wake. His fingers slide up an into her hair, exposing the line of her neck to his questing mouth; gentle, gentle down into the soft bend of her neck. It pulls a sigh from her chest, head sinking back to allow better access to the fragile surface. He can feel the tremor of goosebumps that ripples over her and the stubble at his chin drags deliciously at his smile. His hand rests at the dip of her waist, thumb circling slowly, and it brings back other memories of the hours they’ve spent here, sated and her half-asleep, as Robin lies absorbed in feel of her skin.

His mouth coasts up to tug softly on the lobe of her ear and it’s only when she lets out the her first low murmur of pleasure that he draws her back more fully against him, hardened flesh pressing into the cushion of her body. He’s ready, but he makes no move to take her, opting instead to trail his hands up, tracing the tips of his fingers lightly on the underside of her breasts. It makes her shift, she can feel that smile again, but he won’t be hurried. His touch grows bolder, palms traveling up and down, petting the curve of her as her restlessness grows. Each pass goes fraction higher, a hair lower, until he allows the weight of one orb to fill his hand a moment, before returning leisurely down to the receptive line where thigh meets more tender places.

There’s a hint of a whine in her next breath and she shifts herself back into a deliberate grind of his aroused flesh, making his hand clench involuntarily firm at her thigh where seconds ago it teased the join of her limbs. They both of them know how to play these games. He moves further down to part her legs, pulling one up and back over his own, punctuating the movement with a roll of his own hips. It’s not enough, barely brushing the space where even now need is beginning to slicken, but this new arrangement leaves her open, waiting for his next touch. He leaves them suspended in place for a long second, listening to her deepened breath and feeling the fine strain of her limbs trying to anticipate his next stroke. When it does come he doesn’t tease her this time, sinking into the weight of her breast, kneading heavily, savouring the moan she can’t hold in as he finally pulls at the hardened tips with his outdoor-roughened fingers. Her body is starting a subtle rock back into his, but their position leaves her frustratingly limited. He’s whispering to her now, hot breaths in her ear, his voice another pair of hands running velvet over her nerve endings.

Her own breathing has turned to gasps. _More, give me more_ her body begs.

Her voice would have followed but as one hand began it’s descent he turns her head so his mouth can meet hers, swallowing that first harsh sound she makes when he dips into her wetness. When he releases her mouth her head falls back to the pillow, world reducing down to the calculated rhythm he’s started. Each pant is a staccato moan as he plays with the engorged peak of her, other hand tugging at her breast. He moves faster and she can feel him driving her up, losing the careful grip of his control as he whispers encouragements to her. “Go on” he tells her, “I want it all”.

The star in her belly burns white and then nothing, nothing for the seconds, minutes, hours of her body arching and full. It’s an indeterminable time later, as she comes down, spent, inner-muscles still pulsing in the afterglow that he thrusts in and up, entrance helped by her release. These fires he stoked weren’t just for her; he finds his own completion quickly with a long, satisfied groan. Eyelids heavy they pull away from each other just long enough to settle, she slips into oblivion with his body bracketing hers.

She awakens as she has every night since they said goodbye, alone, body aching in requiem, the space next to her cold and undisturbed. The familiar tears she surreptitiously whisks away while not looking at herself in the bathroom mirror aren’t because it’s not real, but because no matter how many times she has to stand here blaming the watering in her eyes on the bright light of morning, there’s always a moment before reality sets in that she reaches across the bed for him and thinks it’s going to be.


End file.
